


dark horse

by Elendraug



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eating Disorders, Gen, Neglect, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: and we did our best.
Relationships: Stan Marsh & Kenny McCormick, Stan Marsh & Kyle Broflovski, Stan Marsh & Wendy Testaburger
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Genuary 2021





	dark horse

**Author's Note:**

> this is unpleasant
> 
> ♫ AJR - [sober up (ryan riback remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwNy0U8KT7E) by way of [this gorgeous artwork](https://sidesnail.tumblr.com/post/175227401878/wont-you-help-me-sober-up-all-the-big-kids)

Cheesy Poofs are merely tolerable in the best of circumstances, but he’s snagged the stale bag left open on his desk after staying in bed past eleven on a Saturday, while Sharon’s been too distracted with Randy’s latest embarrassments to keep tabs on Stan’s sleeping habits. Corn disintegrates in his saliva, sticks to his teeth, offers nothing close to a crunch as he reluctantly designates it as breakfast. His stomach is sour, breath as stale as the snack, and he’s doubly jetlagged from Jameson and jarring awake in the wrong stage of the REM cycle.

He scrapes orange residue off his fingertips with his incisors, disgusted by the idea that you could go on television for eating something that’s primarily salt and singing about your hypothetical lameness. The presence of his fingers near his palate is equally disgusting; the telltale taste of bile creeps in at the base of his bicuspids and he’s swallowing too much spit.

The bathroom is two doors down and mercifully vacant, and it’s with measured footsteps that he makes the trek towards it, closing himself in with a quieted click of the latch and a flick of the fan switch to stifle the sound and the stench. He has to hold his own bangs back with his right hand and braces his left against the seat, kneels into the mat and spits into the bowl until his eyes are watering.

Breathing is miserable when his gag reflex is working against him, when whiskey’s working its way back out too long after the fact. He tries not to think about the spectacle his family’s bathroom became when his dad decided he needed attention, nor Scott’s run-ins with hypoglycemia hitting too close to home when nobody takes notice that Stan can’t stop himself from shivering. He spits again, sickened by its disruption of the water’s surface, reeking from bleach and worse.

He spits until the back of his throat hurts from exertion, until he’s expelling air from his esophagus in wretched, ragged bursts, praying the fan drowns the noise. He wants to upend everything in him, nauseated by memories of the mouthfeel of meat, of veal calves or ruptured blubber from whaling or Willzyx, of the stagnant water of a fishtank he never asked for, just wanting this out from his mouth instead of mouthing the words, or of wanting Wendy’s affection too desperately.

Stan vomits into the toilet, the cheap plastic of the seat digging into his palm as he grips it, the porcelain coated with condensation from someone’s shower and soaking into his pajama pants at his knees. The chewed but undigested flecks of Yellow 6 float in a froth, and the sight of it tips the scales enough to send him heaving all over again, with diminishing returns.

He exhales, dizzied by it; feeling shaky just makes him think of goddamn pizza and every birthday party he's regretted. As he struggles to steady his breathing, he occasionally interrupts himself to continue clearing the mess out of his mouth, and nearly retches when he catches sight of the saliva dangling from his lower lip and descending towards the former contents of his stomach, not quite heavy enough to sever its own strand, unexpectedly cold as it’s exposed to the air.

To his left is the roll of toilet paper, and maybe it’s karma that’s put him in this position, irony taking him to task far after Mrs. Streibel’s left the incident behind, but Stan’s rarely had trouble blaming himself when the mood strikes and his ego’s exited the scene. He makes a pitiful noise no one else will hear, wipes his tongue with a wad of paper, and picks off the rolled, damp bits that cling to his mouth and fingertips, tossing them in after the rest. The world has a metallic tone to it from years of moisture settling on the rusted anchor bolts, tasting notes like the whiff of phosphor bronze on his skin after he’s plucked guitar strings, like handling screwdrivers cooled to the temperature of the garage and neglected in a toolbox for longer than he’s been alive.

Gradually he stands up from the ground and flushes, all evidence of reverse peristalsis disappeared down PVC pipe, and wishes he could shed anything Randy’s ever said to him.

Stan scrubs his hands clean under tap water that’s just shy of scalding, and ducks his head to the sink to spit down the drain. With wet fingers he wipes again at his tongue to wash out his mouth and then splash water on his face, familiar with the stink of dried saliva from the mouthpieces of his inhaler or recorder, or previous run-ins with hangovers, but no less repulsed by the situation for its frequency.

In the mirror he’s sallow, his black hair stuck to his forehead first with sweat and then with water, bile lingering in the back of his throat. He coughs to clear it up, gritty mucus like sandpaper, as off-putting as every family dinner he hasn’t wanted to eat. Stan brushes his teeth and tries not to puke from the touch of the toothbrush on his tongue or the saccharin of the toothpaste. He’s dehydrated from vomiting and the alcohol’s not helping; he sucks some water from the nylon bristles and spits it back into the sink.

Stan steeples his hands over his face and rubs at the bridge of his nose with both index fingers before pressing out over his eyebrows. It does little to ward off the pounding of his headache, just as his attempts to stop his compulsions have been as useless as trying to retain floodwaters behind a ruptured dam, to contain the avalanche of clutter crammed into his locker, or prevent repetitive screen-clicking to collect digital currency. It all narrows until it feels solely like his own fault, like no one would listen if he told them, but at least the devil knows his details.

When the bathroom’s reset to as normal as he can manage, Stan retreats to his bedroom and closes the door before sliding open his sock drawer. The pint of whiskey is right where he left it, propped up in the corner, encircled by his superglued bracelet to keep it from rolling out of place. He checks that it’s securely screwed shut before laying it down in the drawer and covering it with clothing, and knows the real answers to _What Would Jesus Do?_ are the things no one likes to hear.

He grabs his phone from his desk before lying down in his bed, with acid at his esophagus. There’s a missed call from Kyle and two texts from Wendy; after a moment of guilt causing its own lump in his throat, he sends Wendy _I’m sleeping in, I’ll call you later_ and copies it over to Kyle in identical response.

Stan chokes back the reminder of reflux and rolls onto his side, his bangs dampening his pillowcase as he presses towards it, and chooses the third most recent conversation on his screen. With his left thumb he swipes through the words _I’m too hungry to eat_ and fires it off before he can second-guess himself or become mired in rewriting it.

He balances the phone on its side on the mattress, as he curls his legs up to brace his forearm on his knee while he watches the screen.

Kenny’s reply returns instantaneously: _relatable_

Stan smiles and sets his phone down with its screen facing the sheet. He closes his eyes against the tension in his temples and the Saturday sunlight, and tries to go back to sleep.


End file.
